


My darling love

by Likorys



Series: Geraskier week 2020 [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Geralts hurt and Jaskier picks up the pieces, M/M, aftermath of fighting, because apparently I can only do fluff when there is suffering to contrast with it, no beta we die like dyslexic with no friends, there is blood and needles and petnames galore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:15:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22764598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Likorys/pseuds/Likorys
Summary: It's the first time Geralt made a mistake dealing with the monster sine he met Jaskier. When he comes back from a hunt wounded, Jaskier gets a crash-course of just how dangerous those things can be. Or Jaskier soft-talks Geralt for hours when he takes care of his wounds. Then they both deal with the fallout.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Geraskier week 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1636678
Comments: 19
Kudos: 249





	1. Chapter 1

While Geralt has some opinions about the idea that witchers cannot love, there is _some_ truth to it. Witchers simply do not fall in love for the obvious reason that it requires them to be close with someone and, well, who would want to get close to _a witcher?_

Sex, however, is a very different thing.

Whores are always willing for a price, which works well with witchers’ libido working overtime whether they like it or not – they still reek of fear under barrage of perfumes they try and hide it under, so Geralt overpays and makes silly requests to just lay for a while and stroke his hair or have them bathe him, to cover up for it.

There are noblewoman, bored with their pretty lives and looking for a thrill they can whisper with their maids about later – it’s only one of the reasons why Geralt avoids royalty, instead keeping to small towns and villages, even if it often lands him in poverty and hunger and outdoors.

There are some noblemen too, curious and enthralled by the idea of having power over someone other than their complacent wives or idea of giving power away for a moment – Geralt castrated a good few of the former and refuses to take advantage or be a tool of the latter.

There are many women who hear about infertility and want a worry-free fun – it’s as transactional as paying a whore, sex for safety, so Geralt indulges when the occasion strikes.

Then there are just common people, drunk on the rumours and tales and whispers, who want to flirt with danger or play at taming a monster, half the time backing out as soon as they get a taste – they’re one of the reasons Geralt’s prefers to sleep in the wild.

It’s emotionless, but then most of witcher’s life is, so Geralt got used to it as he did to any other truths of life. People avoid him as a rule, spinning fantasies about relationships or family would be a waste of time.

After Blaviken he’s lucky to not be run out at soon as they see him.

* * *

Then he meets Jaskier, and-

It’s all so _ridiculous_. The song about abortions that he must know would get on people's nerves, his indignity when it does, the bright colors of his clothes, the chemise creamy and doublet half-open like he’s a whore luring clients. The way he flirts with him so incessantly, the _bread_ and _devil’s horns_ as arousal wafts off of him like smoke from a fire and his eyes are such cerulean blue he might’s as well be looking at a sky.

He leaves him his last coin to shut him up and gets out, to calm off in fresh air and try and ignore his body’s needs because he’s not so desperate to take avenge of a boy having his first taste of the world and its dangers.

But Jaskier follows him, talking nonsense about _help_ and _songs_ and his _reputation._ Geralt ignores him, but then he brings up Blaviken and something in Geralt snaps a little. He’s been high-strung for months, seasons, maybe years already, trying to wait until those stories pass, but they never do (Stregobor might have something to do with it) and it’s been months since Geralt exchanged words with someone that weren’t a contract agreement and he’s not sure of the last time he felt safe enough to take off his armor and can’t remember last touch that wasn’t a monster trying to kill him-

So he waves Jaskier over, planning to use Axii to get him to go away and forget him, but then Jaskier strutting up to him with those bright eyes and a cocky smile and his _smell-_

He sinks a fist in his gut before he’s realized what he's doing.

He regrets it immediately and waits for the curses to breaks silence and the spices to change into sour notes of fear, but-

But Jaskier stays. Gets up from the ground, waving last bits of dust from his face and gasps for a breath, but then walks after Geralt as if nothing happened, back to his babbling about songs and glory and reputation. Geralt doesn’t understand, cannot understand why he’s not running away because his smell is now a mix of resignation and pure stubbornness, muddy and thick, but there is no fear. Not even for a moment.

Geralt doesn’t understand why he doesn’t use Axii then either.

Then there are elves and Geralt’s regrets grow when he thinks he will have Jaskier’s blood on his hands. So he snaps at the bard for not running when he was given a reason, but still barters as much as he can to keep attention and abuse on himself.

It works well enough to get them free and now it’s guilt that makes Geralt let Jaskier trail along, pulling him up to sit behind him when he sees the bard stumble more and more and starts limping and rubbing at his chest (he remembers cracks and the gasping breaths and the guilt start festering, his insides sizzling with it). Jaskier starts with his hand clutching at the saddle, but then they pass a dip in a road that pushed him at Geralt’s back.

He tenses and waits for the bard to flinch, one arm back to catch him in case he’d start sliding off Roach, but Jaskier sits straighter and then leans on him, arms sneaking around his waist, and just mumbles about his armor being too pointy. Geralt needs a moment to move and when he does Jaskier is snoring against his back, so he just lets him stay like that. He loops the reigns around then both and lets Roach steer herself, only pulling her to a side when he sees something she’d miss in the dark.

It’s not fair and he shouldn’t take advantage like that, but it’s been too long and something claws at him at the thought of pushing Jaskier away. He owes him a good night’s sleep for all the trouble, so he can stand adding to his guilt.

He doesn’t hope that the songs that started coming to life a little before will change anything.

But then he never lets himself hope for anything.

* * *

The song works. He’s not sure how or why, he even suspects Jaskier of having some siren blood with the way he charms people, but no, it’s just the bard. This ridiculous bad who never leaves and never ties up his doublet and never stops flirting and never misses a chance to bed whoever’s hanging onto his every word on a given evening.

Geralt doesn’t care. His debt to Jaskier only grows, so the last he can do is not make a fuss about things that are none of his business. He knows he’ll find a way to destroy this – companionship either way, someday, somehow, whether he tries to or not, so he might as well put some effort into keeping Jaskier with him for as long as he can.

He still leaves, when the contract is something too dangerous to risk Jaskier trailing along and getting hurt, to risk showing him full-scope of witcher’s abilities, or when it’s too easily human so he runs to avoid breaking Jaskier’s naive picture of him as some kind of _hero_.

There is a small voice telling him Jaskier would probably keep making songs even if he left him for good, just like he finds out he trails along with him even when they’re apart and makes up new verses from whatever he can get from people who hired Geralt. He ignores it because the guild is already heavy like lead in his chest and any more might break him.

He still makes a mistake. He trusts a farmer on his word that it’s just some kelpie and few drowners, but finds a kikimora’s nest with a freshly born queen instead. He comes back to the inn in the middle of the night, covered in blood that’s half monster’s and half his own, his eyes still throbbing and black from potions, hair pulling at his skin where the gore and the mud started drying off, one of his hands hanging limp because he can’t reach to pop the dislocated shoulder back in place when his other arms is holding his side so nothing falls out of the wide gash.

The inn is quiet as he stumbles up the stairs, but he can still hear sounds of lute in the room at the end. He sways and hits a wall a few times before reaching it and sags against the wood, trying to remember if he ever got the key to it. There is some seasonal market going on in Anadir, but Jaskier promised to sing praises of one of the merchants across the streets for the whole week if he’d be so kind to spare them one of his rooms.

Then doors open and Geralt grunts as he had to sway to a side to lean against the frame, his dislocated shoulder burning in pain and making him shudder.

“The fuck-?” Jaskier’s voice is barely above a whisper and he reeks of fear and Geralt bites his tongue to stop himself from trying to keep him here.

He’ll leave, he has few potions with Roach that will help him heal enough to fix his shoulder and he’ll sleep in the stable and be gone the next morning.

“Like hell you are!” Jaskier suddenly garbs as his arms and Geralt frowns, before realizing he must be bad enough to have said it all without realizing.

Jaskier still reeks and his hands shake as they slide off when trying to grip armor slick with blood. Geralt notices a puddle’s already around his feet, and _fuck_ , this is bad.

“I can see that!” bard’s voice breaks into something high and hysterical. “Fuck, your eyes, can _you_ see?”

Geralt wants to say something to make him calm down or beg him not to be afraid, swear he won’t hurt him, but he can’t do more than nod before the world is swaying and he starts sliding against the door frame.

Jaskier curses, fingers finally finding purchase on straps of Geralt’s chest piece and clinging for dear life.

“If we both trip I’ll never pick you up, so _please_ walk.” He pulls at him and Geralt bites down a scream as every wound seems to remind him of itself. He still chokes out a pained moan and Jaskier’s fear seems to double.

It makes no sense, but bard is still touching him so he does his best to stay upright as he’s led into the room.

“Water’s long gone cold, but I kept the fire... was gonna go and look for you.” Jaskier laughs, and it sounds broken and hysterical and wet. “Probably a good thing I didn’t?”

Geralt hums weakly in agreement. Then Jaskier stumbles and Geralt manages to push him away and just sit heavily on the floor, but he doesn’t hold the scream this time and everything goes black for a moment.

There’s some pounding and screams and rapid footsteps and more screaming and then an explosion of pain his arm and bile rises to his throat and washes out blood from his mouth and-

“-see in the dark, Geralt, you need to choose the fucking potion!” Jaskier’s screaming comes from far and Geralt takes a moment to force his eyes open, not sure when he closed them.

He’s sat on the floor, sagging against a bathtub, there is a bucket covered with cloth nearby. Jaskier’s kneeling in front not him, only in silk pants and his stupid shirt that’s bloodied in places and Geralt’s bag is by his side, bard’s lap full of bottles with potions that are so colorful they make Geralt’s eyes burn, but for Jaskier must all look like oil.

The stench of fear mixed with blood and vomit _chokes_ him by now, but Jaskier’s picking up a potion to bring it to his eyes and he can’t make his efforts go to waste. He shakes his head slowly for a few bottles, then nods for the one to help with blood-loss and another for the pain.

Jaskier sags for a moment, then slowly puts potions back into the bag before pushing it away.

“I’ve got the bath and they’re bringing more hot water and needles and linen, Geralt, don’t worry, I’ll patch you right up and you’ll be all fine to watch my performance come morning.” Jaskier’s babbling as he uncorks the small bottles, keeping them between his thighs. His fingers grip at Geralt’s hair and he makes a wounded noise when something squelches between his finger and flop to the floor, but his grip on tightens so he can pull witcher’s head back. “You’re guts are whole, would be stinking at the place by now if they weren’t, but if you shouldn’t drink them for some other reason, now’s the time to tell me.” Jaskier huffs out a breath like it was choking him.

Geralt shakes his head a little, then all his effort goes into swallowing down potions and not choking on them. Gentle fingers brush along his throat, making it a little easier. There are more potions that Jaskier showed him, but the taste is the same so be probably just picked a few more for the blood.

The floor is wet where Geralt’s sitting and his side is still bleeding. There are footsteps again and hushed voices that turn into a buzz in his ears. He sways back, but then Jaskier’s holding onto his arms and barks something to the side.

A moment of splashing and harsh scraping later, he’s gently pushed back and can lean against something. He lets out a sigh, feeling the potion slowly start to work and he’s not sure when he closes his eyes again, but he keeps them like that.

Maybe Jaskier won’t run away as soon as he’s sure Geralt won’t die if he appears a little more human.

* * *

Jaskier moves away, eyes glued to Geralt and sliding over his body, the blood, and the gore and the wound, gods, _all the wounds_ -!

“Need anything else?” Alderman’s here, lured by all the commotions and so is half the inn’s visitors, lurking in the corridor. Jaskier’s glad to have someone to bring witcher’s bag and warm water and medical supplies, and move the bath-tube and the bed, but-

“Room and peace and quiet.” He says, pulling the empty glass bottles to the side. He sniffed at the two Geralt let him use and by trial and error found four more of one kind, so he gave him everything, hoping it will help and not do any more harm.

He’s not sure there is any harm not done to Geralt, at this point, and he still has to keep a melody in his head so he will keep his breathing level-

“Here.” A small bale of linen is dropped by his side, and then a box of needles and threads. It’s the merchant who gave them this room and Jaskier’s starts to say something about pay, but the man waves it off. “I pass by the river they send him to after the market’s done. Meeting whatever did this to him-“ his eyes trail to Geralt, sat in a puddle of blood and half-conscious against wooden tub, and he pales. “Whatever you need, bard, both of you, just ask. I’ll keep one of the boys by your door, to keep watch and an ear out.” He promises, then turns away to grab alderman by the arm and they start ushering onlookers out.

Doors close and Jaskier’s alone and _he can’t do this-!_

“Fuck!” he brings his hands up and slaps at his face, then forces himself to get back close to Geralt.

Witcher blinks, sluggish, his eyes still black as night, but they find Jaskier much faster than before so he takes it as a good sign.

“Now the fun part.” He chuckles bitterly and pulls at the linen and cuts a big chunk. He folds it over and then grabs at Geralt’s wrist, pushing at his side. “You’re gonna lift for just a _tiny_ little moment, I swear, and I’m gonna put this nice, soft linens to staunch the bleeding and you’ll go right back to holding it, okay?” he’s whispering, soft and gentle, fingernail picking at the dried blood at Geralt’s sleeve.

He waits for the witcher to nod, sees him tens up and his jaw clench, and he bites his own lip as he rips his hand away and pushed hard with the linen at the split armor and raw flesh between in. The way Geralt’s back strains hurts him, but it’s the broken moan that shatter his heart.

“Shh, you did great, it’s all over...” he croons, because if he let the gravity of the situation get to him he’d panic and he can’t. He reaches for Geralt’s hand and lets it replace his own, pushing it in place. “Yeas, just like that, hold it here... I’ll start below waist, then get your arms, you just keep holding this, okay?”

He waits again for Geralt to nod, reaching blindly for the knife and rolling more linen into his lap. He cuts it into long strips at the sides, and the middle into handy pieces he can always stack or fold. It gives him a moment to assess the damage, before his tarts taking off the filthy clothes and armor.

The wound on Geralt’s side is the absolute worse, but there are cuts everywhere and few of what looks like bite wounds? There is a cut on Geralt’s temple and his hair stuck tighter pulls at the skin, staring to lift it. But he can’t see much more with Geralt still all covered up, so he turns to the side and starts with his booths. The leather pants need to go, but they won’t move, probably stuck with dried blood and gore, so he brings a candle close and picks up a small blade he asked for, in case he had to cut something out of him. He cuts swiftly along the seams, trying not to think about having to redo them all. The leather splits open and he peels is away from thin pants that cling to Geralt’s skin so much he could trace every muscle.

He lets a small laugh at finally getting to see him naked and blinks away the tears, because why like that, he never wanted it to his _like that!_ He just saw a brooding loner who was gorgeous and then wanted to help the witcher who was so kind, but seen as such a monster.

He didn’t plan for anything, just staying by his side until his reputation picks up, but then he saw how Geralt seems to have settled for life with no comforts and took it upon himself to give them to him. It didn’t work much – until now.

And he never wanted it like that...

“Okay, darling, you’re doing _great,_ just great, but I’ll need you to pick up your lovely bottom in a moment, okay?” his tone took that crooning, gentle tone and it doesn’t seem to leave, but it doesn’t seem to hurt and helps Jaskier keep calm, so he doesn’t change it. He cuts the pants along the seams too, though he’s doubtful they’re salvageable. He peels fabric away, then lifts Geralt’s knees to get it in one place and get something good to grab and pull. “Is your arm good enough for it?” Jaskier looks at witcher arm, the one he had to pop in place and the sound will probably haunt his nightmares, but _he had_ to do it so _he did_.

He predicts a ton of nightmares and a mental breakdown later, but _now_ Geralt _needs him_ , damn it, so _be there_ _for him_ Jaskier will. No matter how much he’ll pay for it later.

Geralt moves his arm around, face pinched. His eyes are paling, going into ashy-gray, a whisper of iris moving in there like a lonely cloud on a starless sky. The veins don’t seem to cut his face so harshly anymore. Jaskier hopes that a good sign.

Finally, Geralt grunts in agreement so Jaskier grabs at the bunched fabric, pulling until it’s taut. He reaches for Geralt’s free arm when it shakes at the floor and gently puts his elbow on the edge of the bathtub.

“That’s it, darling, you need to move just a tiny bit up and I will pull all these dirty clothes away and you’ll be done moving, I promise.” He whispers, ignoring an irritated grunt he gets in response.

That is definitely a sign Geralt’s doing a bit better.

Then Jaskier says “Push” and pulls at the fabric and Geralt lifts, his whole body shaking with the effort before the tub _fucking sways_ and Jaskier jumps up to pull it back down before it floods the room. It sends Geralt back down and Jaskier onto him, knees scraping against the floor and tearing silk fabric, but all he can hear is the low moan.

“Shh, darling, you did great!” he pulls back as if burned, sliding back between Geralt’s legs and brushing his hands across his thighs because they’re the only place he sees patches of mostly undamaged skin and he needs to keep touching him or something will break. Then he notices the leather bunched up, part with buckle and ties still under Geralt’s ass and sighs. “You did wonderfully, it’s all over now, I’m just gonna...” one of his hands slides down between witcher’s legs, the other pushing his cock and balls away as he digs under the skin to get the stupid fabrics away and finally kick it aside.

He gives a little sigh of relief and then gets to looking over, cleaning, stitching and bandaging the many cuts on Geralt’s legs. It’s still dark outside, but Jaskier could bet they won’t be done before noon.

* * *

Geralt’s dizzy with the potions, not enough to make him unconscious but enough to mellow him out, as if he’s drunk and lost his inhibitions.

He tells himself that’s why Jaskier’s soft words and gentle crooning get to him so much, work their way into his skin like fishhooks ready to tear him apart, but instead seep warmth into his frozen bones. He _shouldn’t_ want this, witchers _can’t_ want this and Jaskier _won’t give this to him_ because he will run away as soon as Geralt’s patched up-

But for now, he’s so kind and it seems so genuine. Geralt ignores the stench of fear ever-present in the room as he obediently tries to hoist himself up. It works for a moment, strain punching breath out of him as he grinds his teeth, then the world starts tipping over.

Somehow it ends with Jaskier right by him and he frowns a little. There is fear, sour and heavy in the air like potion gone wrong, but there is something faint and sweet underneath it-

Then Jaskier’s jumping away, because of course, who would want to touch him, especially in this state, but-

Then he is touching him, but only to get rid of the clothes and _that’s it_.

He can’t wish for more, but he's dizzy and Jaskier’s crooning at him and stroking his legs with every pinch of the needle that sends goosebumps along his skin and-

Not _all_ of them are from pain, even though Jaskier’s no healer and every time he finishes a wound there is a searing pain as he pulls, bringing it close and Geralt can’t quite hold back moans.

They’re not all from pain either.

It’s confusing and it’s probably disgusting, to fantasize when Jaskier’s stitching up his wounds and that’s the only reason he’s touching him, but he can’t stop. Not with how many times he had to suffer through recounts of his _spoils_ , how many times he caught him in the act, how many times he had to listen to a naive girl sigh and marvel at him and his skills and affections.

Witchers aren’t supposed to feel, to love, but Geralt _adores_ every single second he gets with Jaskier right now, every soft touch and gentle word, no matter the pain and fear and blood.

He lets himself close his eyes and the methodical work to lull him into meditation, hoping it will help the healing at least a little. Then Jaskier moves away and he snaps them open, searching for him before he can stop the panic and longing from showing in his eyes.

* * *

Jaskier chokes on air at the way Geralt’s eyes pass around, frantic, before clinging to his face. They’re still grey, but the irises turned bright gold again.

“Shh, I’m right here, darling, it’s all fine...” he grabs at his free hand and strokes a thumb across his palm in slow circles, stomping down a wince at the way strong fingers crush his hand. “I’m just getting ready to get to your arms, don’t worry, I’m not leaving anywhere.”

It’s probably presumptuous, he can’t _smell his blue balls from across the room_ like Geralt, but he’s been with enough people to _read_ _emotions_ pretty damn well. He’s been with the witcher long enough to start reading _him_ too.

Although now he seems so familiar to a dunker human Jaskier might be taking some liberties so keep his sanity. He vomited two times already at the stench of blood and gore and he’d like to keep at that until he’s finished. Then he can have his hysteria.

“Come on now, that’s it, keep _this hand_ right here and I’m gonna start with the other.” He says moving to sit on Geralt’s thigh and starts to work on the amour piece on his forearm. He winces at the little clasps and the dried blood and flesh stuck to them and decided to leave them all in the water after he cleans Geralt up.

Leather might come out a little worse for wear, but it looks like they’ll need to replace it either way. He wonders briefly what are the chances he’d be able to haggle for some good lather from the merchant. He offered, but people are finicky and he might change his mind when there isn’t a dying witcher at his feet...

His head snaps up at a groan and he curses when he notices that the piece of armor it stuck here as well and by trying to pull it away he probably gave his witcher a taste of what it feels to be waxed. Just great. Geralt’s gonna throw him out as soon as he gets his voice back or maybe even sooner. Great!

He breathes in and out, humming, and reaches for a bucket of water. It’s lukewarm, which is good, other buckets are kept warm by the roaring fireplace. The window is open because without it the smell would probably be unbearable, but he can’t risk Geralt getting cold.

He eyes the fire, deciding it can do without more wood a while longer and turns back to Geralt.

“I’m gonna put your hand in the water, to take it all off, sound good? Good.” He doesn’t wait for a response and bends Geralt’s elbow, putting his forearm into the bucket. Water is dirty in moments and Geralt’s choked down moan makes Jaskier want to pull it out _now_ , but instead, he slowly works his finger under the piece of armor and then pulls it away. “Now keep it here, please.” He rests his elbow and wrist on the edge of the bucket and starts scooping water in his hands, pouring ii onto his arm to then slowly pull away another piece of armor.

There are only a few cuts and one nasty bite to stitch, and then Jaskier has to address the dragon in the room.

“Darling, I’m gonna need to get to this hand now.” His fingers ghost over Geralt’s own, clutched into the linens that are starting to bleed through. Geralt gives a grunt of protest and hisses when trying to move makes his back strain. “Shhh, darling, you won’t feel a thing!” Jaskier keeps him in place, clutching at the armor he’s gonna have to _take off_ without Geralt’s palm _moving_ , fuck. “Don’t worry, you can keep it right here... shhh, my brave darling, you’re doing amazing and I’m just gonna do it so slowly, don’t move, you won’t feel a thing, do not worry about a thing...” he’s rambling, until Geralt relaxes a little against the tub.

Then he reaches for fresh linen, soaks it in water, wrings it, and starts slowly wetting the armor to soak the sleeve of the tunic under it. It’s long and uncomfortable because he has to do it around Geralt’s arm still holding onto his side, but he finally throws two more pieces of armor to the side.

This arm is mostly fine, with only a few cuts he only had to wrap after cleaning, and then-

Geralt turns his head away in almost a pout because they both know what’s coming. The chest piece and the gaping wound.

* * *

Geralt’s not sure why he did it. It’s mostly pain, he got only one potion for it and it was the weaker one, so he still feels most of Jaskier is doing, it just never passes above a certain level. His side still burns tough, and holding it seems to be the only thing that helps Geralt keep hold of himself.

He doesn’t want to lose control, not like this, not in front of Jaskier. It’s one thing to moan against Roach’s side and weep into saddle blanket in agony, but this- Jaskier seems to still see him as something _worthy_ , something good and strong and brave, something deserving the help and soft touch and indulgence. Geralt is terrified of losing it, of Jaskier running out of patience and leaving him to fend for himself. He wants to keep him here, with him, but he can’t if he breaks down and-

“Oh, my darling...” Jaskier’s voice is full of heartbreak and Geralt frowns before instinctively reaching a free hand to scrub at his face. It comes off clear and wet.

_Fuck._

He tenses, eyes squeezed tight to try and keep the last shreds of his dignity, ready for mockery or harsh words or sounds of footsteps and door closing, for being thrown away _again_ because why need a witcher who breaks down at-

“Shh, my love, it’s all okay...”

* * *

Jaskier’s one step away from sobbing right now and he only barely holds it back, because he needs his fucking voice now. It’s probably why he let the _love_ slip despite Geralt’s five-year track record of giving him the cold shoulder. But he can worry about all that later, he has a witcher with tears on his face in front of him.

He kneels in front of Geralt and slowly reached to cup his face, fingers brushing away tears.

“Cry if you want, love, it’s all okay. You’ve been so good and so brave to kill all the monsters and come back to me...” he stops, the thought of Geralt being left like this, in the wild, to fend for himself making his blood run cold. “You did great, darling, been so good when I did all the stitches... not I just need to you be brave one last time, okay?” he leans closer, their foreheads touching. He can smell the tears from this close and rubs his nose against Geralt’s and tries not to shudder at the low, _keening_ sound witcher lets out, his eyes still squeezed shut. “Just one last time, my love, to lie down and let me make you better. This one last wound, then I’m gonna take such good care of you nothing will hurt when you wake up tomorrow.” He promises, fingers stroking Geralt’s cheeks and neck, thumbs brushing away the occasional tear that slips out. “You’re been to great, darling, my brave witcher, it’s okay to cry a little at the pain... it’s perfectly fine, love, I’m right here...”

It takes a good few minutes of the soft coaxing, but he gets Geralt to lie down on the floor. He rolled out half of the linen before so it’s not just hardwood he gets on, as Jaskier kneels by his side.

“I’m gonna talk through everything I’ll be doing, darling, and see?” he puts Geralt’s free hand on his leg. “If something is wrong, anything at all, just squeeze me, love, and I will stop at once.” His fingers brush along his palm, forearm, then slowly slide back and up again as he waits.

Geralt just breaths for a moment, shaking a little, then gives him a testing squeeze and Jaskier’s hand move up at once. He smiles a little when Geralt seems to melt just a tiny bit at that and then finally reaches for his other hand.

“I’m gonna hold it down and you just let go, love. I will let it up, so slow you won’t feel a thing, I promise.” He’s back to crooning at Geralt and the tries not to think too much of the way he shivers at his words.

He’s not so desperate to use a situation like this to his advantage. Maybe later, if he wants to imagine, but not now.

He kneels so he can put his weight on Geralt palm, waiting for him to relax his arm before slowly, so slowly taking away the pressure. He can feel the moment when the wound is left alone because blood trickles down Geralt’s side and few fresh tears slide into his hair.

“I know, love, it’s so awful, but I need to do it. It’ll hurt just for a little while and then be all better, darling, I promise.” He whispers, starting to peel back layers of the linen.

He doesn’t need to worry about fabric getting stuck to the wound, because it never stopped bleeding. The linen lands on the floor with a wet smack as he uncovers the wound, because _he was wrong, before_.

It’s not a cut. Something bit and ripped a stripe of skin off, from Geralt’s hip above his belly button and to the lovest of his ribs on the other side. He bites down on his arm and struggles trough dizzy spell and dry heaving.

Then he sets to work.

* * *

Geralt brings up his hand to cover his face, breathing shallow and pained. He can feel the air on his stomach and on his insides and he wants-

He just wants it to _stop_.

Jaskier’s touch and words mellowed him out, like snow melting in a pot and he can’t seem to find his voice or logic. He just wants the hurting to stop and to never let Jaskier slip from his fingers.

The sounds of metal clasps slowly becoming undone grated on him, but he just grinds his teeth. Then he feels the first move of the armor piece that pulls on the wound and his back arches off the floor and his head hits it with a dull thud, a pained scream tearing out of his throat. Jaskier’s hands are off of him in second, there is a splash and then a warm cheek rubbing at Geralt chin. He's not sure whose tears he can smell now.

“Shhh, love, I know it hurts, it’s so awful I need to do this when you’ve been such a darling, but please be brave just a little more. I will clean it up and then stitch it and everything will be over, love, shhh... please, let me help you...” Jaskier’s voice is soft and warm as it rolls over his neck.

It takes Geralt a few tries to unclench his hand, the silk clinging to his fingers.

He reeks of fear, but... yes, _right there_ , the fear is mixed with something sweet. It makes for a nauseating mix, but Geralt’s learned to tune out fear because it’s all around him, so he chases the faint sweetness like a hound trailing a fox, trying to recognize it, but it’s like nothing he’s ever known.

It's still sweet, faint like someone next to him eating sugar candies with mouth open, but so gentle and so soothing like fresh flowers in spring...

He breathes through the pain, shuddering when he feels fresh blood on his side, the fabric under his hips wetter by a moment. Then he grinds his teeth and gives Jaskier a tentative pat on his knee.

* * *

Jaskier beams even if Geralt can’t see it and leave a brief kiss on a check.

“That’s it, love, just one last push of being so brave and so good for me, then the worst will be over.” he brushes at his other side, getting up, then brings a small blade to the wound. He painstakingly cuts the fabric that clung to it without moving the thorn armor, just so he can finally pull it up without cause Geralt more pain.

He cuts the tunic in pieces and throws them away, giving up on trying to save it. He leaves the armor under Geralt’s back alone for now, because the bleeding is still going strong, even if it’s sluggish, _hopefully_ due to potions and not running out of blood to spill.

“Now comes the worst part, darling.” Jaskier brings up a small piece of wet linen, lets water drop onto witcher's stomach, far away from the wound for now. “I need to clean it and dig out all the cloth that’s left... I’d say hold my hand, love, but I know you’d never want to hurt me, so here.” He puts a piece of raw metal into Geralt’s hand, glad he asked for it with all the other supplies.

In his panic, he planned to use it as a last-resort _branding_ _tool_ to close the wound if it wouldn’t hold the stitches. He hopes they will suffice though, because having to hurt Geralt like this might just kill him.

“You can squeeze it all you want, love. Just try not to break any fingers or nails, okay?” he almost smiles, closing witcher’s fingers on the metal and making sure his nails can’t too easily find purchase. “Oh no, darling, get it back here...” he sighs when he notices Geralt taking back his other hand, his leg giving a lurch after it almost instinctively. He grabs his wrist and gently pulls until he can lay the hand on his thigh again. “Don’t worry, darling, here’s what we’re gonna do: you will hold my pants, just like that love...” he curls his finger around a bunch of dirty, damp silk and then makes Geralt’s fist pull at is a little. “Just one pull, love, one pull and we will take a little break when it gets too much. You’ve been so good to me, darling, I know you won’t hurt me.” His fingers stroke Geralt’s wrist, feel the slow pulse under them.

He hopes it’s a _witcher_ thing and not _on death’s door_ thing. He really does.

Geralt gives him a short nod, one arm still covering his face – his eyes. Jaskier gives a broken smile and still leans to reach and kiss him a kiss on the nose before grabbing the wet linen.

 _It’s a nightmare_. Geralt’s keeps mostly still, but Jaskier has to wash out pieces of fabric and leather and something that looks like pieces of a _claw_ from the wound. He can hear the metal groan in witcher’s fist and every single keen and scream of pain will haunt him for the rest of his life.

He pushes through the buzz in his ears and bites his wrists whenever his hands won’t stop shaking, besides that never stopping an endless string of endearment and encouragements and coaxing that spill from his mouth until he barely has time to breathe the air that taste like metal.

Finally, the wound is clean. The piece of skin missing is long, but very thin, no wider than Jaskier’s little finger.

It’s still a _strip of skin_ missing, edges _jagged_ and in one place there is a _piece hanging out_ on the start of the wound.

“Now it’s time for stitches, love.” He whispers, voice slowly getting hoarse. “Do you want a little break, or can we go ahead, darling?” he reaches to prepare the needles, but waits until Geralt’s arms stop shaking.

He doesn’t get a nod, but Geralt’s fingers clutch the raw metal that almost slipped out again so Jaskier gently touches the very edge of the wound.

“I’m gonna go one by one, love, just two little nicks and then I will tie it up, so no pulling.” He promises. He’s never had to saw a wound all he knows is the stitch to take up fabric so clothes fir him better and he can only hope it works.

First, he needs to raise the skin to stab the needle and that makes Geralt’s arm move, jerk in a wide arc, Jaskier’s hair brushed by the piece of metal before it hits the ground with sickening crunch of either broken wood or fingers, but Jaskier’s can’t stop, so he pulls the needle trough and then once more and then ties it up.

“One done and over with, love, you’re doing perfect.” He says, and doesn’t look at Geralt’s face either despite feeling the small shakes that indicate he must be crying again.

His fist hasn’t moved by his knee, so he goes ahead because he feels like a piece of glass and if he looks, he’ll shatter.

He puts stitch after stitch, lifting the skin to pierce it and finding more pieces of the claw, then he’s at the end and-

He slowly raises to kneel, and then puts one knee on Geralt’s ribs.

“I’m _so sorry_ , love.” He whispers before reaching for a knife.

* * *

Geralt dizzy with pain, his thoughts a muddled mess. The only thing keeping him in place is Jaskier’s voice and his smell, the stench of fear sharp and reminding him what he has to lose.

He thought stitches would be the worst. Then Jaskier’s holding him in place with all his weight and he feels him _cut_ and he almost lifts him off the ground as his body spasms.

It’s not even _bad_ , no worse than cleaning the wound, but Jaskier’s gentle care made him open about the pain and he regrets it, because it seems to make it so much worse, so bad he can’t breathe for a moment, a roar in his ears deafening.

“-so sorry, love, shhh, I’m gonna make it all better. Almost done, darling, you’ve been so good for me, just amazing, love, I just need to put in the last stitch and that’s all...” Jaskier’s voice is muted, he barely understands the words, but the tone and affection are _real_.

He slowly looks down, sees Jaskier tie a stitch, last on in the long like. Most of the wound is clean, but the very edge of the skin pulled together is bleeding fast despite it and bard puts a piece of linen and presses lightly. Geralt hisses, flinching away and pulls his hand to wipe at his face. His fingers throb from clutching Jaskier’s pants for so long and his other palm hurts from hitting the ground with the metal.

He looks aside and it just might have an imprint of his fingers on it. Fuck, he can’t lose control like that! Not with Jaskier so close and not ever, he could’ve hurt him-!

“You did so well, love now the worst is all over.” Jaskier’s vice is still so soft that Geralt needs to look at him, because he could’ve hurt him and never noticed in the fog of pain-

But Jaskier’s fine.

His shirt is a bloody mess, his face pinched like a blown glass a moment from cracking, and his hands are so red Geralt’s heat lurches, the air is still smelling of fear, but he’s not harmed. He didn’t hurt him in his weakness-

“Come now, love, you’re not weak.” Jaskier’s smile is indulged and Geralt feels a weak blush trying to color his face, but he doesn’t look away. Bard’s eyes are bright in the dark room and as clean as summer sky and it’s-

Comforting. Soothing. Like fingers that trail across Geralt’s stomach and the gentle lilt in his voice as he continues:

“Didn’t need to hear you say this one, darling, I can see it written on your face.”

* * *

Jaskier gives them both a moment to calm down before he sighs, trying to hold himself together, because he’s far from done.

“I need to move you, darling, your head to my lap and start on your hair.” He says, trying not to look at the scabbing over the cut on Geralt’s temple. “You got a small nip, there, just need to clean your hair so it won’t pull on the skin.” He explained quickly, rubbing at his own temple in sympathy.

Geralt gives him a tired look and the pleading whine almost gets to him.

“No chance, love. You need it clean and your hair too, or would you rather need to take a razor to them come morning?” he arches an eyebrow, trying for his usual tone and Geralt gives a weak huff.

He does let Jaskier move and then slowly, gently push his knees under his head. He grabs a clean cloth to wet it and slowly starts to dampen Geralt’s hair, to pick out the worst filth. This is easy, almost hypnotic, but all too soon he sees the skin at Geralt’s temple relax and he needs to clean a wound and stitch it gently.

“Shh, love, just two more, I promise you...” his whispers turn a tiny bit frantic, because Geralt’s clutching at the linen under him and doesn’t even try to hold back moans and whines. He hopes it’s just too much at once and he’s too tired, not- not anything else. Anything worse.

He puts three small stitches, just to keep wound closed, and then goes back to slowly, gently washing Geralt’s hair. It makes his clothes soaking wet and even dirtier, but at least this is not _Geralt’s blood_ , not _his skin_ he has to _throw away_ after _cutting it_ because _claws_ left a piece _hanging_ and he couldn’t _stitch it_ and-

He takes a long breath, fingers running idly trough hair greyed with grime and picking out bits to throw away. He continues washing it until they’re back to a faded white. He’ll finish it when the wound closes and he can have Geralt sit in the water.

“How’s your back, love?” he asks after a long while, unsure what to do now. He feels tense, like a lute string pulled too tight and making sound at every touch of air. Like he will snap without something to do. “I will clean all you armor later, darling, don’t worry about it... fine, maybe worry _a little_ because it’s in such a sorry state it will probably need serious mending.” He laughs, his voice a little wet.

His fingers continue stroking along Geralt’s scalp, listening to his breath. Geralt hums, low and deep in his throat, then shakes his head. Jaskier relaxes the tiniest bit and leans down to kiss him on a nose, just to giggle at the frown he gets and telling himself witcher is just tired, that’s why he won’t open his eyes.

“Do you think you will make it to bed? It’s close, darling, just outside your arms’ reach. I had them push it closer.” He adds hurriedly at a weak moan that answers him. “Come on, love, you’ll feel much better in a nice bed, won’t you?”

* * *

Geralt doesn’t want to move ever again in his life. He doesn’t want the bed, Jaskier’s lap is fine and he’s comfortable there. Potions are starting to kick in hard, making his body work overtime on healing and leaving him groggy from forced exhaustion. He wants to sleep above all else, but-

“Come now, love, just lean on me and I’ll get you to the bed...” Jaskier’s voice is so soft and so nice he has no choice but to listen. So he sits up amidst coaxing and gentle support, then goes to kneel, finally moving on his knees until he reaches the bed and can sit on it.

He’d fall flat if Jaskier’s didn’t hold onto his arms, lowering him down slowly. Geralt purrs almost against his will, sinking into the fabric, a flush burning at his face this time. He hears Jaskier chuckle and gives an irritated grunt, but doesn’t have it in him to be anything but complacent as bard sits by his side and cleans up the rest of dirt from him. He pushes dry linen under his head because his hair is still damp and then his fingers run trough them as he hums idly and Geralt-

He changed his mind. He never wants _this moment_ to end, never want to _move_ , never wants to feel anything else but _this_.

* * *

Jaskier sits by the witcher until stilling his fingers stop putting a crease on his forehead. He covers him up, makes sure he doesn’t run a fever and swiftly turns around.

He puts the armor in the water and leaves it to soak, then washes the leather pants.

He sits by a candle and slowly picks out threads of the cut seams, then replaces it with new ones.

He cleans up the room until he runs out of clean buckets and even water by the fire is lukewarm.

He takes out the armor and painstakingly cleans out then oils every clasp, wipes off all the grime.

He sews the worst gashes and cuts in it, bending 3 needles and stabbing his fingers a dozen times despite the thimble before he’s finished, but it looks like it should hold at least against a weaker monster they might be surprised by before they reach next town.

He gathers leftover supplies and linen to give back the merchant, deciding he’ll at least ask about the leather.

He tries washing the pants and tunic, but none are worth saving so he puts them away.

He takes stock of Geralt’s potions, writing down what he used and what they smelled like, then a list of everything else with a description of the smell to question witcher about later so he can be less useless next time.

He vows to slap him if Geralt ever suggest there be no next time, because, in Jaskier’s opinion, he earned himself a permanent stay at his side.

He washes himself and throws his own clothes for garbage, then quickly changes into clean undergarments and goes to Geralt’s side.

He runs out of things to do, unless he wants to _leave him_ and he kneels at the floor, suddenly unable to hold himself up. His breathing is harsh and he bites on his hand, until it _hurts_ , until it _bleeds_ , so the tears flooding his face won’t bring out the sobs that choke him. He leans on the bed and hides his face in the sheets, free hand sliding up so he can rest it, shaking, on Geralt’s leg.

_Quiet._

His witcher needs he rest. Sun is already rising outside the window and he still has the promises singing to perform on the market, but for now, he only needs to stay quiet. He did everything in silence to let Geralt sleep, he can break down without a word as well.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier deals with the fallout of the hunt. He tries his best, but he's just a bard who feels too much and things don't go too well.

Jaskier’s not sure when he dozed off, tired out from panic and stress and crying. He dreams of blood and open wounds and rain of needles and the screams never end and they're never his own.

He wakes up to Geralt’s groans of pain and a putrid smell in the air. When he picks up the blanket, there is a wet stain on it.

The last of the stitches at Geralt’s hip are swollen, liquid seeping out between bloated skin and the smell is even worse.

The wound is infected, because _of course_ Jaskier would fuck something up. Can’t have it be over and done with, no, that would be too easy!

He scrubs at his face, humming a stiff melody to keep his breathing level and as slow as he can manage. Then he stands up to gather needles and thread, cuts some linen and brings everything to the bed. He grabs witcher’s arm and shakes him, softly, making sure to lean in and be in his field of view as he wakes.

The skin under his fingers is clammy and when Geralt does open his eyes, they’re unfocused and confused and a groan becomes a half-muted scream as he tries to shift on the bed.

More liquid seeps, no longer clear, but clouded yellow.

“I know, love, I’m s-so sorry-” Jaskier hides his face in his arm, careful to touch him as little as possible and hoping he cried all his tears before.

He fucked up, but he’s gonna fix it and do better next time.

“I need to clean the wound, it’s infected... do you understand, love?” he forced himself to look into Geralt’s eyes, brushing sweat-damp hair from his face. “It’s awful and I’m _so sorry_ , but we can’t leave it like that. I’ll be quick and _so gentle_ , love, I promise.” He’s babbling a little again, guilt swelling in his gut and compressing his lungs, grabbing at his throat.

Because it’s his fault. Geralt’s in pain and will have to endure even more, all because Jaskier’s a fucking _failure_ and can’t even stitch a wound up right! As if he hadn’t suffered enough, a century of loneliness and tending to himself as humans scorned him right after making him save their miserable lives!

He startles when a hand brushes his cheek, only now realizing it’s wet. Great, he can’t even keep from crying now!

Geralt makes an inquisitive noise, the sound still laced with pain and Jaskier rubs at his face.

“I’m fine, love, shh, just angry at making you hurt.” He whispers and grabs witcher’s hand, giving himself a few seconds to just hold it to his face, breathing slowly, fingers stroking at the quickened pulse at the wrist.

Then he puts it down on the bed and sits on Geralt’s hips.

“I think it just needs to be drained, love. I’ll push and it should be enough.” He says, hoping to all the gods he is right and won’t have to redo the stitches.

That’s what you do with infection, right? Drain the stuff until it stops coming back? He had a splinter in his hand once, from an old training sword, but when he forgot to take it out, it got swollen and hot, and they had to put a needle in to drain the puss before taking it out. He was young and doesn’t remember it very well, but he bit his maid when she touched it so he heard about it countless times.

It will work now too, because it’s _the only idea_ he has, so he grabs a bit of linen and puts it on the edge of the wound. He holds onto Geralt’s arm with one hand, the steels himself before pushing with the other.

Listening to Geralt scream isn't as bad as yesterday.

It's worse, because that was the _aftermath of a monster_.

This is _Jaskier’s own ineptitude_.

And Geralt’s paying for it.

* * *

Geralt can’t keep his mind straight and it's infuriating, when he manages to hold onto a feeling for long enough. The air is rotten and clogs his lungs, he feels hot even as he shakes.

His side _hurts_. He thought they were _done_ and feels stupidly betrayed and has to blink away tears.

Tears... _Jaskier_.

His fingers still sting where he tries to wipe his cheek, because he can’t cry. Nod looking at him, not because of him, he’ll be fine, he doesn’t deserve being cried over.

The pain’s like lava, seeping between every thought, trying to drown him. He’s vaguely aware of the fever, because witchers' mutations keep at least the mind from becoming too frazzled with it, but something else makes him weak and distracted.

He can hear the screams, muted as if his ears are filled with cotton, but he’s not sure if they’re his own and definitely can’t feel his own lips to try and shut up. He still feels he should, because-

Because-

He’s not sure, but the need it primal and ingrained in his skin like a brand.

Jaskier’s voice is choppy, coming and going. He’s far too gone to notice the words, but the tone is kind and much more gentle than he deserves. The air stinks with something _spoiled_ , but there are sour notes of fear and a salty flood of regret.

Like walking by the at sea and finding a washed-out corpse.

He wonders if drowning would’ve been kinder to him, if it would’ve hurt less, but he can’t.

He can’t leave, he can’t, because-

Jaskier, he is-

If he was to die, he would’ve-

He’s not sure. The fever might not make him lose consciousness, but it does very little for his focus.

But this he knows: he can’t die. That is not ingrained – it flows in his blood, in the marrow of his bones, with every beat of his heart.

He can’t leave, not-

Not Jaskier, he-

Then the pain burns through his groggy mind like a _wildfire_ and it doesn’t stop and he just wants it to _end_.

It does with darkness and a scream that hurt more than anything.

* * *

Jaskier swallows down sobs and rubs tears off on his arms, pushing the linen again and again, using smaller scraps to wipe off the puss, now turned pink because there is blood seeping out as well, with white strands making him think of egg drop soup and he swallows down bile that burns at his throat. The smell is putrid, spoiled and sweet and sharp.

“It’s gonna be fine, love, I promise. I’ll fix it and you’ll get better, love, I’ll fix it if it kills me.” He promises, like a broken record, even as he starts wondering if it was ever anything but a _lie._

It just doesn’t stop, he will think everything’s gone, but then push again and more will come out and there’s no end to it and Jaskier’s running out of sanity and-

Another push makes Geralt lurch on the bed with a guttural keen, almost throwing him off, stitches cutting into the skin as liquid pours over his side. Jaskier’s almost sure he heard something break and actually sure he felt something _under_ the skin.

He breathes in and out, biting as his cheek to keep from screaming from fury as himself, alderman, monsters and the whole situation.

Mostly at himself, because he needs to do it _again_ to make sure.

He changes position, one knee right by Geralt side and other over his chest, making sure to find a position where it wound aggravate any other wound when he puts his weight onto him, to keep him in place. He puts the linen on the bed, pushes it under his side to spare the sheets.

He puts naked fingers on the puss-slick skin, feeling it cling to his own, then he pushes.

More blood seeps out, then a white clot pops out, cut in two by a stitch and he feels something _hard_ with his finger. He grinds his teeth at Geralt’s muffled cry and pushed at it and it _moves-_

_He left something in the fucking wound._

The shock makes his ears ring, Geralt’s screams on a loop, the putrid air burning in his lungs, his hands shaking as they clutch at his own arms and he can’t quite bite down a wordless scream of-

 _Everything_. Just everything, as he feels something in him break at a sudden realization.

He saw Geralt get throws into a bog-worth of drowners and come out angry at Jaskier for reading the map wrong. Kelpie wouldn’t affect him, because his head is un-bewitchable or whatever.

Drowners have black claws, like overgrown nails, and he spent an hour picking white shards from the wound.

Alderman _lied_ to them.

“-some he-help?” a voice breaks through the buzz in his ears. Jaskier’s head snaps back and he tumbles to the floor in a heap, head throbbing as it bangs on the frame of the bead. It almost clears his panic.

There’s a teenage boy standing in the doors, pale as a sheet, and Jaskier’s first thought is that his freckles look like a spray of dried blood.

Ha lets out a hysterical laugh and stands up, swaying.

“Fuck off.” He growls, fingers grabbing at a knife he used to cut the linen, clutching until his palm hurts. “Open the door again without me asking and I’ll run you threw with it!” he screams again, throat raw and burning as he swings the knife, and the boy shuts the door so quickly they shake in the frame.

It’s _unfair_ , he knows it in theory, but the fury is boiling in him. He throws the knife at the floor and falls to his knees. He can’t breathe.

_They lied to them._

He falls onto his hands.

Geralt could’ve been fine, but they _lied_ and that’s why he’s like this, because like greedy bastards they lied to them!

His nails scratch at the wooden floor, breaking, drops of blood seeping out between cracks.

Pain makes him gasp for air and his head clears a little again.

They lied – fuck them, but later. He’ll make sure to make it _even_ , but after Geralt is safe.

He forced himself up and goes to lock the door, then turns back to the bed.

Witcher’s unconscious and it makes his blood run cold.

It’s a small mercy, as he goes back and cuts a stitch, then two, then _five_ before he can lift enough skin to find a piece of a claw, long and curved and stuck in tissues, as long as his thumb.

The edge is jagged. It’s stark white.

He replaces the stitches and covers the wound with fresh linen. He washes off the stain in the cleanest bucket he finds and covers Geralt up.

He gives himself a short moment to sit by his side, foreheads pressed together and just watches his chest move up and down in shallow breaths, a trembling hand laid on his sternum to feel the heart beating too quick for a human. His skin is still clammy, but he thinks there is some color returning to his face.

He waits until his hands stops shaking, then he changes his clothes.

He uses Geralt’s spare tunic, stuffing it into his own pants. He takes the knife and looks around shortly.

Geralt came back without his swords or the pouch he keeps on his belt. He imagines him going out yesterday, prepared for an easy hunt and walking into a nightmare. Imagines him grasping at the few potions he always takes with him, imagines as one of his arms becomes useless, as the other becomes busy keeping his guts from spilling, imagine him abandoning his weapons. He imagines his coming back on foot, in the middle of the night, reeking of blood and covered with gore.

His hands clench into fists and his fingers throb with pain as he breathes. His blood seems to freeze in his veins, and with it everything else besides a vicious, swirling ball of rage. It’s cold and it feels as if a glacier took home in his chest, grand and huge and moving with purpose, uncaring of anyth-

 _Geralt._ He’s the only one worth caring for, only one deserving of any trust. The thought of leaving him terrifies Jaskier more than anything in the last hours, but-

The cold is _spreading_ and his skin itches with the need to do something or he’s gonna rip _himself_ apart. He’ll be damned if he risks the witcher getting caught in it. He’s had enough stupid humans and their problems for a lifetime.

When he opens the doors, a key and a knife in his hands, there's a young woman standing there. Her eyes are stormy, lips a thin line and she has freckles too.

They still look like blood splatter.

“You work for the merchant, yes? One who gave me the room.” He asks, voice sounding dead to his own ears as he locks the door, praying Geralt will not wake when he’s not around. He left his things and the lute in case he does, that should clue him in he didn’t run.

The woman nods, once, her lip raising in a snarl.

“He doesn’t need your songs.” She barks out. “Don’t approach us, ever again, and forget about that job! He keeps a guard with him, you know.” she spits at his feet, hissing out, “Fucking monsters!” then marches into a room.

_Whatever you need, bard, both of you, just ask._

The cold spreads as Jaskier lets out a bitter laugh, the vicious thing swirling like a whirlpool under ice.

He goes down the stairs, then walks to the main building of the small town. The knife makes people shy away and he’s glad for it, but after few moments he puts it into behind belt to avoid being thrown out. Geralt needs time to fight the infection.

He finds Alderman on the street, talking with some merchants that just drove in and he grabs him.

“The payment.” He says shortly, ignoring the surprised stare that shifts into unease.

“Yes, of course.” Alderman looks at his bloodied fingers but doesn’t comment. “Come with me.” He gestures for Jaskier to follow and they go into the building, then into a room with a heavy safe by the wall.

He pulls a coin purse from there and throws it to Jaskier’s who weighs it in his hand. I would probably take him three to five days to get about the same with his performances, in a big enough town.

Few nights of his songs or Geralt’s life.

“I’m glad you came by before the market’s done. The road is the safest one out of here and with the state that witcher came back in, I fear how many would’ve died to the drowners-“

Jaskier laughs in his face, clutching at the purse. So a coward _and_ a liar. At least not a thief, though he has no idea if that’s what he was supposed to pay.

“I don’t know _what_ you send him after, but they weren’t drowners. _Even I_ could kill one of those things and he’s in the inn, _delirious with fever!”_ the scream tears at his throat again.

Alderman look at him startled and then it melts into a soft look of pity.

“Stay as long as you need, you’ll be safe here.” He says gently.

“Because of _Geralt.”_ Jaskier snaps, tries not to think about the stench of infection, the feels on slick tissue as he had to look for the last shard. “Because you _lied_ , send him for who knows and he still was ready give his life to protect you’re miserable fucking-!”

“We can’t pay more.” Alderman interrupts him sternly and rubs at his nose. “The market lets us stock for the winter, we gave all we can spare.” He sighs. “What’s a difference what was the monster? He agreed to slay it and agreed to the offer.”

Jaskier doesn’t care about the winter. Let them _freeze_ and _starve_ for all he cares, if they should be safe at the cost of Geralt’s pain and suffering!

Something must’ve shown in his face, because alderman is looking wary and for a while, just stares at Jaskier, as if he was waiting for him to strike.

Jaskier wonders if that’s what he looked at Geralt as he sent him into a trap.

“If you find proof.” Alderman says finally, slowly. “We won’t deny witcher his due pay, if you can show that he was misled, but we need proof. You must understand-“

“Fine.” Jaskier spits out the words and clenches his fists, focuses on the pain. “I’ll bring you _proof_ and you will pay us with interest.” He takes a shallow breath, then: “And pray Geralt’s doesn’t _die_ or all of your pathetic lives won’t be enough as consolation.”

He turns and walks out, ignores a gasp behind him.

There are three roads from the town, the west one they used that loops around a mountain, one on the opposite side and one leading to the fields. He turns east and starts walking, bumping into people and not caring one bit, anger swirling under the ice and roaring in his ears-

“There you are!” someone grabs his arm and spins him and he stumbles.

The merchant.

More _lies_.

He’s talking even now, but Jaskier can’t hear him.

Coin purse breaks as he hits his face and coins go everywhere. He lets go of the leather and gets another punch in, something crunching under his fingers before someone grabs him around the waist and holds him up, high enough he can’t reach the ground.

“Fucking cowards!” he can still scream though and his throat burns with venom. “All you can do is lie and fucking run like cowards as soon as we turn our back!”

“Keep him still, Evan!” the merchant’s voice is satisfyingly stiff and Jaskier smiles as he grunts, popping a broken nose into place. Someone gives him a handkerchief, but he waves them off, eyes never leaving Jaskier who’s trashing in the hold and heaving. “I will give you chance to explain yourself, bard.” He says sharply, waves off an outraged _But Amir-!_.

“Fuck you!” Jaskier tries to kick at him. People are staring and he doesn’t _care_ , they’re not worth caring about, but it makes him realize he walked into the market.

There are stalls around him, crates and carts full of produce and wares, fabrics and metals and weapons and tools and food and he wants to vomit, but all he can do is cry.

“Geralt’s lying half dead and you’re getting rich off his suffering!” he’s hoarse and his voice is breaking, he can’t breathe deep enough. “Fattening your coffers, but can’t even pay him fairly for keeping your miserable lives safe! All the pretty promises of help as empty as you’re rotten hearts, you bastards unworthy of the air you breathe-“ he chokes, the hold too tight and irony sour on his tongue, his ribs aching as he gasps for breath. “I’d rather see this town drown in blood and you would all deserve it!”” he gets out before something hits his head.

* * *

He comes to on the ground, a rope tying up his arms and a bottle of smelling salts in front of him. He gags and hopes he'll hit Amir if he vomits.

“Let’s talk, bard.” The merchant crouches in front of him, his nose red a swollen, making his voice weird. “I’d like to know why you-“

“Fuck off!” Jaskier tries to stand, but the rope holds him down, something behind him rattling. He settles for murderous glare.

“My offer of help was true.” The man sits down and Jaskier’s wants to strangle him. “Who told you otherwise?”

“Your fucking girl!” Jaskier rolls his eyes, trying to feel if they took his knife, but fids nothin. “To _never approach again_ because you have a guard.” He spits out, raising his legs. The ground is dry, he can at least kick sand at his eyes and-

“With freckles? Looks like the boy I left by your doors?”

He’s not sure what makes him stop and reconsider. Maybe it’s the eyes of the merchant, tired and weary.

He nods and the Amir sighs, rubbing at his temple.

“They’re siblings. She’s overprotective of him and-“ he stops when he sees Jaskier snarl, because he gives no fucks about poor little brats. “Whatever she said, it was without my knowledge. I offer you, again, any help you would need, bard.”

Jaskier- _considers_. The anger in him wants to scream, but if this is true- he yelled at the kid, if he scared him and he run to her-

Fuck it, he _doesn’t care_. If the offer is true, that’s good enough because he needs silver.

“Silver and chains and a cart. After you untie me.” He says evenly. “For now.” He adds, because he’s petty and wants to know for sure.

He expects to he hit again, but instead, the rope is cut the Amir calls to bring a heavy chain and big pice of leather with silver studs. It takes Jaskier a moment of just looking at it too believe it’s not some trap.

Maybe the man is decent, maybe just scared, _he doesn’t care_.

The glacier took hold and all the space in his body and there is nothing else that can fit. Except for Geralt, but he’s different.

“Take Evan with you.” Amir waves at the man, the same who held Jaskier before. He sneers at him.

“Fine.” Jaskier doesn’t have time or energy to argue. “ _I deal with the brats.”_ He hisses suddenly, because _they_ work for the merchant too.

Amir gives him a weary look, and there is an underlying fear and Jaskier still cannot care. It's starting to grate on him, but he had proof to find and any time wasted means more time for Geralt to die or wake up and think Jaskier left him.

“-but not now. Later.” He adds, and that seems to work because Amir nods and takes Jaskier to a small cart, last boxes being takes off.

Jaskier climbs on and waits for Evan to get on the back, then hits the reins.

* * *

He finds the wetland beside the river easily.

There are pieces of kikimoras everywhere and he stops counting heads after a dozen. Some look like spiders with their many legs, some more like beetles with thick armor and horns. He finds the steel sword, bent and crusted with blood, under a halved body.

Only one corpse has different colors, twice the size of the others. The silver sword sticks from an almost cut neck. Jaskier rips it off and hacks at the wound until the neck breaks, then he rolls the head back to the cart and leaves Evan to pull it onto the back.

He comes back and looks the corpse over. The left limb has part of its claw broken off and splintered, a strip of skin rotting away at the edge.

He finds the missing part wedged into a tree right beside him and thinks about Geralt using it as a shield, feeling safe before the claw breaks, shortens, reaches and _cuts_. There is a small knife wedged into it, a crack coming from there. He rips it out and wastes time stabbing at the damned thing, thinking of every shard he had to pick out, every stitch he had to tie, the infection and the fever and _the fucking lies._

Jaskier wishes he could use signs like Geralt and burn this place until nothing is left.

He goes back to take the silver-studded leather and a chain from the cart.

“If you wanna help now’ll be the time.” He says to Evan, who’s gone pale at the first sight of the carnage.

Jaskier goes for the river, begrudgingly respecting the man a tiny bit for going after him.

He sits by the water and soon notices the kelpie. He rolls his eyes at the yelp behind him and kicks the watery face, the enchantment sliding off of him as if he was truly turning to ice. He just might be, with how little he can bring himself to care about, Geralt the only painful exception.

Kikimoras leave bones, puking them like cat would a hairball. Geralt can probably recognize their bites from those.

Jaskier only knows that drowners aren’t as picky and often leech off other monsters. It takes a few minutes for one to show up, but when it does Jaskier barely jumps out of the way. Its claws are long and thick and blunt and black as night.

The fucking _lies!_

He gets to his feet at the scream and sees Evan running away. Any respect is gone, but he needs the monster so he grabs the leather and runs after them. The claws jab at his arms when he tackles the drowner.

He was wrong, they are sharp enough to break skin and blood slicks his arm.

He holds onto the monster with every ounce of the fury he has, hearing the sizzle of skin burned by silver, the stench of rotten meat feeling the air. He digs his feet into the ground and looks around.

Evan’s frozen on the ground.

“The chain!” Jaskier gasps because an elbow founds his chest. He almost loses his grip and digs his nails into the blunt ends of the studs, hissing at the pain when some loose purchase when they break.

The chain lands at his feet, then Evan runs.

“Coward!” Jaskier throws at his back, then tackles the drowned to the ground.

It twists and crushes him instead. Sharp teeth snap right by his face, stench of decay making him dizzy. Something cuts into his thigh. He grabs at the chain and finds the ends, pulling to make it swing. The blow to a head makes drowner turn and he manages to twist them around.

He ties the chains around the monster and drags it to the cart as well. His arm shakes and his leg is throbbing and he hears sloshing of water so he jumps onto the seat. The horse takes five tries before it starts going, but it does and that’s all that matters.

Jaskier’s exhausted and in pain.

Blood is pulling on his seat.

He passes Evan on the way back, sees his shock, sees him wave.

He spurs the horse faster and passes him and feels nothing.

* * *

He drives straight to the main building. He passes Amir on the way and shrugs at his questioning gaze, looking away.

“Alderman!” he forces himself to scream and when the man comes out, Jaskier jumps off the cart. “Your proof!” the fury blankets pain and he drags the trashing drowner to alderman’s feet. “This is a _drowner_ , you uneducated fuck! So dumb even _I can fucking deal with one!_ ” he reaches for the silver sword and drives it through the monster’s neck, twists, pulls it to the sides to behead it.

Geralt uses brains for- something. It might be useful to keep the head intact.

Alderman is looking at him in horror and Jaskier feels absolutely nothing.

He tips the cart and lets the head of kikimora queen roll around, stopping it with his foot next to the drowner. It’s twice its size.

“ _This_ is what you sent him to kill.” He walks to the alderman, close enough be sees blood drain from his face, understanding making his eyes hollow. “Nest of kikimoras, over a dozen of them and their queen, and you _sent him there_ for almost _nothing_.”

He waits for satisfaction, for glee, for happiness, for the ice to melt.

He feels nothing.

“Store them, we’re gonna use the bodies later.” He says, not caring what they think of his words. “Bring cart back to Amir.” He adds as he’s taking the swords, almost an afterthought, but- Amir is nice enough and it just might not be because of fear or wanting them to be indebted to him.

Then, Jaskier goes back to the inn.

* * *

Geralt is not awake, but his fever is much lower. It’s a small mercy and Jaskier is glad, as he sinks onto the floor by his bed, swords clattering on the wood.

The room was cleaned. There are buckets of fresh water and a pile of new sheets and some clothes. The tub is gone and a new fire was started in the fireplace.

He should probably thank Amir.

 _If_ he gets Geralt new armor and materials to fix the swords.

Fuck, the coins spilled over the street... the alderman better pay them back as he promised. They’ll need it, with the state Geralt is in. Armor, fixing the sword, maybe potions if they find a healer or a mage. The clothes are less of a worry...

He stretches his legs and the left one burns and _oh_ , right, he’s probably hurt.

He strips and sits on a patch of linen. There are few short cuts on his arm, a gash above his knee going up the outside of his thigh, a small puncture on his ankle. He grabs the needle and the thread and cleans the wounds.

Then he swears up a storm after the first stab.

He breathes in and out, looks over to the bed. He remembers every stitch he put on Geralt last night – a hundred and twenty-two, five redone this morning – and grinds his teeth as he starts sewing the wounds.

He puts on clean clothes from the pile and sits at the end of the bed, leaning against the wall.

He looks over Geralt, reaching to stroke his ankle, relishing in the warmth of his skin and the slow rise and fall of his chests.

He closes his eyes. The window is open so he listens to the market start, the loud talking and the laughs and the noise, listens as it quiets down a little during dinnertime and then picks up again, until it slowly fades into nothing.

He doesn’t sleep this night.


End file.
